


under the lights

by Serpents_Cradle



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hockey, Asexual Character, Basically I Love Hockey and I Love Ronsey so This Fic Was Born, But A Successful One, Detroit Red Wings, Gansey is a Drama Queen, Hockey, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Niall Lynch's A+ Parenting, Sports Violence, The NHL AU Nobody Asked For, Washington Capitals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2019-08-09 05:00:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16443392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serpents_Cradle/pseuds/Serpents_Cradle
Summary: Gansey had learned to skate when he was seven years old, while on vacation with his family in Michigan. His mother had an impromptu campaign stop in Detroit along the way, something about a friend in the Senate and an “incredible opportunity,” leaving Gansey II alone with his children and hours to burn.Now, he stood in front of his teammates, his best friends, a white C on his breast, holding the keys to the dressing room. It was only hours until his first game as Captain of the Red Wings, and his stomach turned with fear and excitement. He trusted his team, and they trusted him. There was nothing that could bring him down tonight—he was sure of it.It didn't matter, though, when the Capitals’ rookie came like a bat out of hell and scored.(AU where Gansey is the Captain of the Red Wings, and Ronan is the Capitals' Rookie.)





	under the lights

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JennaTalbot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JennaTalbot/gifts).



> this is the longest fic i've posted here, and anyone who knows me knows i'm easily distracted, so this took a lot of help. a special thank you to ria (@kaeriot) and ronan (@lynchmatthew) for betaing, and megan (@janesargnt) for helping with the russian.
> 
> this is a gift for the lovely jenna (@richardcampbells), who happens to love both the red wings and ronsey.

  
  


Gansey had learned to skate when he was seven years old, while on vacation with his family in Michigan. His mother had an impromptu campaign stop in Detroit along the way, something about a friend in the Senate and an “incredible opportunity,” leaving Gansey II alone with his children and hours to burn. But Gansey was his father's son, and it didn't take long for him to go stir crazy in the motel they were staying at.

And so they had taken their gunmetal-grey minivan down through a local neighborhood, intending to drive around the city and stay out of the cold. When they passed a small pond, Gansey pressed against the window, staring at the ice. The surface was frozen over, likely several inches thick and surrounded by slushy snow. Near the banks there was a pile of multicolored jackets thrown haphazardly on the ground, heavy snow boots on top to hold them down against the wind.

Gansey didn't care much about the lake, though—he was far more taken by the boys on the ice, swaddled up far less than sensible children should be, sticks in their hands as they shoved jokingly against each other. Helen caught his eye following their red plastic puck and motioned for their dad to slow down. 

“Let's go out there,” she said, gesturing to the ice as she spoke. “Someone looks starry-eyed.”

Gansey II shrugged, but pulled the car over to an empty space along the curb anyway. His son and daughter scrambled out of the car, Helen holding her younger brother's hand to keep him from falling into the snow. Soon enough, though, Gansey managed to get away, running towards the ice as fast as his little legs could carry him.

Gansey took one step too many and promptly wiped out, gasping when he hit the ice hard.

The boys looked over, their game temporarily forgotten. The puck slid over and embedded itself in the snowbank a few inches away from Gansey's right thigh. He felt blood flush high in his cheeks, but he knew it wasn't from the cold. He was about to respond when one of the boys skated over.

He was probably nine or ten, older than Gansey but about his size. One of his friends barked something Gansey couldn't quite understand. The boy offered Gansey a hand, his smile bright as he stepped into the snow and reached down to unlace his boots.

“Looks like you need some skates.”

***

That was almost fifteen years ago now, when the first trip had turned into a yearly, then monthly, occasion. Any time he could, Gansey was on the ice, training and conditioning. It was hard, especially during the summer, but he pushed through. His quest from the pond to the NHL had taken more work than anything else he had ever done, but now he was here. 

Now, he stood in front of his teammates, his _best friends_ , a white C on his breast, holding the keys to the dressing room. It was only hours until his first game as Captain of the Red Wings, and his stomach turned with fear and excitement. He trusted his team, and they trusted him. There was nothing that could bring him down tonight—he was sure of it.

And when they entered the ice that night, and the announcer called his name, and said _Captain_ , his heart sang.

***

They lost, 2-1.

Gansey had checked the numbers over and over, every stat, every report, every video he could find, what felt like every singular piece of strategy ever written, just for this game, this season, his _career_.

It didn't matter, though, when the Capitals’ rookie came like a bat out of hell and scored. Twice. He was fast, and played like the game would be his last. Gansey couldn't even think, numb from the loss no matter how close it was. He sat in front of his cubby, looking at the documents again.

_Ronan Lynch. First Round, 27th overall. Virginia, United States._

Gansey stayed in the room long after the rest of the team had left, save for Parrish. His Alternate gave him a wary look when he finally grabbed his bag from his cubby. “Don't stress, Gans,” he murmured. “It's preseason. Nobody is doubting you, I promise. We didn't expect Lynch to do so well.”

Gansey nodded quietly, folding the papers away and shoving his things in his bag. “How the hell did he do that? These numbers are average at best. He was barely a first round pick.” He said, visibly frustrated. He tried not to let his composure crack, but the loss and numb was quickly replaced with determination. “We play them again next week,” he explained. “Something tells me this is going to require extra research.”

***

_3:00 A.M., FIVE DAYS BEFORE THE GAME_

This was how Gansey found himself in his bedroom in the middle of the night. watching games. His research had started simple, scraping the surface—even searching Lynch's name brought up very little save from the goals the night before, but he hit the jackpot when he checked Lynch's high school website. There were hours of it: the boy had a brief position as a goaltender too, which explained a lot. 

Gansey chewed on his pen. He had stopped taking notes about an hour ago, but he couldn't keep his eyes off the screen. He wasn't much younger than Gansey, just a year and a handful of months, but Lynch moved with grace and strength all at once, weaving and checking interchangeably. It was impossible to tell what he would do before he did it. Gansey let out low whistle. How had this boy not been drafted earlier?

At four, he had managed to dig up Lynch’s old Instagram. It was almost stalker-ish, but Gansey refused to let himself think about it. Lynch wasn't in most of the pictures on the account; instead there were dogs or cows or chocolate ice cream. In the few he was in, he wasn’t smiling. Gansey wondered what he looked like when he did, if it was the same sharky smile that had crossed his face when he had scored the night before.

At four thirty, Gansey fell asleep with the TV on and his phone in his hand.

***

_9:30 A.M., FIVE DAYS BEFORE THE GAME_

At practice that morning, Gansey shared his research with Parrish, who nodded as he listened intently. 

“Sounds fishy,” Parrish agreed when he finished, but then he shrugged. “Maybe he was holding out for a certain contract, or he had family issues. Wish he'd been drafted here and not Washington,” he said jokingly, firing a wrist shot on Cheng. The goaltender blocked it easily with his pad, and Parrish sighed. “Fuck me.”

Gansey chuckled, shaking his head. “You can catch a little air, you know.” He teased, scooping a puck from against the boards and firing. The puck sailed into the net, and Gansey smiled his winner's smile. 

Parrish rolled his eyes, but when he took his next shot, he followed Gansey's advice. “Don't stress about it too much, Gans. He can't score forever.”

They won that night, 3-1. It lifted Gansey's mood impossibly, and when the Devils left Little Caesars Arena that night, Gansey felt like he could finally breathe. First game won as a captain, and still in preseason. He would be okay, he was sure of it. He just had to do what he always did, and everything would turn out fine

***

_8:00 P.M., FOUR DAYS BEFORE THE GAME_

Ever since those first three steps onto the ice, Gansey had never felt that hockey was only a game. It was a lifestyle, and nothing less; to lose was a personal insult. That didn't mean he believed that players should take negative energy off the ice, but it did mean that they should take every loss as an excuse to do better. 

He hadn't stopped thinking about Lynch, about his skill and his win. He had consumed every piece of media he could find, but the man was still a wild card. Gansey had no idea how to read him, but he was sure that there had to be a key. The rookie's teammates seemed to know it, based on how they interacted with him on the ice—first there was nothing and suddenly he had the puck, ready to score. It was instantaneous.

This was how he ended up messaging the boy's Instagram. Gansey wasn't sure that Lynch even used it anymore, but he figured it might take some pressure off his chest.

_richardgansey62: Hey. You still training this late? You must be to be doing so well. ___

__It wasn't terribly eloquent, but Gansey was afraid to overstep or be too formal, so it would have to do for now. He had no idea why he had bothered—probably superstition, or jealousy, but he didn't care to parse those feelings out now—but he still found himself checking his Instagram extra diligently while he made himself a sandwich._ _

__At 9:31, his phone chimed, and Gansey's heart leapt._ _

___[richardgansey62: new message from 18lynches.]_ _ _

__Gansey practically killed himself trying to open his phone, but his pulse was racing. The message wasn't much, but it was there. He had made contact, real contact._ _

___18lynches: just finished. hbu?_ _ _

__The captain barked a soft laugh, smiling slightly. He hadn't expected Lynch to actually be training, but he wasn't surprised. He remembered grinding his entire rookie season to prove himself well enough. He was glad to see that Lynch didn't bother with formalities, because it meant he could relax a bit. Nothing would come badly of this. Hopefully._ _

___richardgansey62: I'm in bed with a grilled cheese. Don't tell my nutrition coach._ _ _

__Gansey sent the message, not thinking before he typed, trying to convince himself it wasn't that big of a deal. He was just a friend, a stranger, even._ _

_____18lynches: lmao_  
_18lynches: what they don't know won't hurt them_  
_18lynches: speaking of which why did you message me_

__It was the question Gansey had been dreading, but he figured it wasn't worth it to lie. He leaned back against his headboard, humming an upbeat tune to himself as he typed. It was something he had learned to do to keep himself focused on the ice, and had subsequently wormed its way into the rest of his life._ _

_____richardgansey62: I guess I'm still hung up on Monday. You played well._  
_18lynches: oof yeah_  
_18lynches: sorry about that btw. ik it was probably rough since ur the new capn n all_

__Gansey blinked. He hadn't known Lynch had known—obviously it had been in the news and on roster sheets, but he didn't figure Lynch would care. Maybe he did, after all. The boy just got more confusing. A few seconds passed before Gansey's phone chirped again._ _

___18lynches: u in hitsville still? were in ohio tomorrow_  
_18lynches: if u wanted to meet up i mean_ _ _

__Saying that Gansey was shocked would be an understatement. They barely even knew each other, but yet he found himself typing before he had time to talk himself out of it._ _

___richardgansey62: In real life? Off the ice?_  
_18lynches: why the hell not? meet u in toledo at 11?_ _ _

__It was all surreal to Gansey, who knew very few other NHLers personally outside of Detroit. He had the rare advantage of spending four years on the same team, but it did mean he wasn't sure quite how to go about bonding with outsiders. However, he hadn't gotten where he was by staying in his comfort zone._ _

___richardgansey62: Sure._ _ _

__***_ _

___5:00 P.M., THREE DAYS BEFORE THE GAME_ _ _

__The meeting with Lynch was all Gansey could think about, and it clouded his mind through practice. His teammates seemed to sense the ambivalence of his mood and gave him space, but he still felt like the walls were closing in. He didn't know this rookie, so why did he want to meet up? Was Gansey just going to talk to Lynch, or was he going to slit his Achilles and throw him into Lake Erie?_ _

__(Maybe that one was a little bit extreme.)_ _

__Despite this, Gansey was an expert at keeping his personal life out of the rink, and when the Wings beat the Penguins that night, Gansey slipped away unnoticed._ _

__***_ _

___11:30 P.M., THREE DAYS BEFORE THE GAME_ _ _

__Gansey had gotten in his car as soon as he could, but he knew he was going to be late._ _

__About an hour away, Lynch had messaged Gansey an address in Toledo, and when he pulled up the parking lot was empty save for a dark BMW. The driver's seat was empty, so he parked his own car two spaces away, but he paused before he opened the door. This was neutral territory for both of them, but for some reason the captain still felt like he was encroaching on Lynch's space._ _

__When he got out of the Pig, Lynch seemed to materialize from behind the beamer and leaned against the hood. His head was freshly shaven, and even though he was wearing a jacket the outlines of his muscles were hard to ignore._ _

__Gansey felt his face flush when he finally reached the car. “You're late,” Lynch spoke, and his voice was much deeper than he had remembered, with the light lilt of a rural Virginia accent. “Have you stopped thinking about it yet?”_ _

__The question took Gansey by surprise, and what little threads of dignity he had managed to hold on to dissolved in his hands. “Come again?”_ _

__Lynch chuckled to himself, offering a hand. “I should have known. You don't have to be so formal, we're off the ice. I'm Ronan,” He offered a lopsided grin, jamming his other hand in his windbreaker pocket. When Gansey took it, he felt the tough edge of Lynch's—Ronan's—calluses immediately. “Cat got your tongue?” Ronan teased, but he shook Gansey's hand anyways. Ronan was huge, but Gansey tried not to let that intimidate him._ _

__Gansey laughed nervously. “No, I just… didn't know what to expect. From this or from you,” he admitted, awkwardly shuffling his feet. “You always seem to come out of nowhere.”_ _

__Ronan grinned. “That’s the secret,” he hummed, winking playfully at the other player. Gansey felt his face heat up again, embarrassment bubbling in his chest. What did Ronan want with him? He was becoming less and less sure, based on the way Ronan was acting: always a wild card, never laid out for the taking._ _

__“You're from Virginia,” Gansey said as his reply, trying to get out of Dodge before he let Ronan control this conversation like he had controlled the game on Monday. He was the Captain here, he realized—he should have more experience with making things go the way he wanted them to._ _

__Ronan nodded, suddenly more focused on swinging his keys around his finger than their conversation. Gansey noticed there was a Capitals sticker on the back of the fob, brushing his fingers subconsciously over the Wings lanyard on his own. “Grew up there, yeah. Lived in the Commonwealth pretty much my whole life, but I've been a little bit of everywhere.”_ _

__Gansey's eyes lit up. “Where so, if you don't mind my prying?” He asked, shifting his weight as he slowly told himself to relax. This would be alright, he realized, as long as he just treated this man like another stranger and not the man that had stolen his dreams a few nights earlier._ _

__“Near Richmond, in the south,” Ronan replied, clearly not wanting to talk about his time in the state any longer. Gansey could relate to an extent—Detroit was his home now, not Henrietta. His parents had moved closer to D.C. not long after he was drafted._ _

__The air was cold in the parking lot, the only heat coming from the two cars’ cooling engines. Gansey shivered slightly, and of course the boy picked up on it._ _

__“Still a Virginia boy at heart, I see. Let's get out of here. I want to get some food,” Ronan said, and Gansey nodded, turning back to his car when Ronan cleared his throat awkwardly. Gansey whipped his head around, likely about to make an excuse or apology, but stopped when he saw Ronan holding the passenger door to the BMW open. “I figured it'd be easier to stick together with one car, if it's okay.”_ _

__Gansey felt his face burn, _again_ , thinking back to his Lake Erie plan._ _

__But, against his common sense, he nodded softly. He prayed to God that the media wasn't around somewhere, buzzing around with cameras and photos that would end up on gossip sites in hours, but it didn't stress him out as much as he thought it was. As he slid onto the dark leather seat in the BMW, he felt like he should be more afraid, but he wasn't. Just a meeting, not a deal with Satan. (Yet.)_ _

__Ronan fumbled his keys in the parking lot and swore, and that gave Gansey the hope he needed. The boy wasn't a machine, just another great player, and he did have faults. He relaxed against the seat as Ronan finally climbed inside and started up the engine with a low hum, and when the car slid out of the parking lot and Gansey left all familiarity behind, he was unafraid._ _

__***_ _

___8:00 P.M., TWO DAYS BEFORE THE GAME_ _ _

__It was a fairly nice evening, in the end—Ronan had taken him to a diner near the city's heart, and despite the fact that it was probably more calories than his meal plan would ever allow, Gansey felt strangely freed by the experience. It reminded him distantly of what some of the KHL players would lament once they got to America, where their game became their life and there was no way to get around it. Gansey had failed to see Ronan as _Ronan, Person_ , and not as _Lynch, Right Wing_ , and when he walked out of that diner he felt like his world had finally aligned._ _

__(He wondered how many times he ignored the distinction between _player_ and _person_ before.)_ _

__Parrish had noticed his escape the night prior and had chirped him throughout their morning practice, much to his Captain's chagrin. Parrish kept saying something about a secret girlfriend or forgetting to feed his cats, but Gansey was so distracted he couldn't be assed to make a coherent jab back. He had other things on his mind._ _

__So now, when Gansey lay in his bed after practice, he wondered if that was how Ronan played so well; that the rookie didn't forget that they were people who made mistakes, people who did more than play hockey for a living, and maybe that was how he had managed to skate circles around him._ _

__Gansey was almost intimidated by the fact that they had somehow become friends, even in the midst of this disaster. There was no longer any residual “this shouldn't be happening” feeling, and his mood had improved tenfold since their loss. The Capitals only had one other game before they played the Wings again, against the Blackhawks, and somehow Gansey found himself cheering for Ronan in the back of his mind. It was strange to have a _friend_ on the other side of the ice, but Gansey couldn't say he disliked it. _ _

__He hadn't stopped messaging Ronan either, although it was usually just a string of nonsense (or memes, when Ronan was feeling excitable), but Ronan was supposed to be playing and certainly not on his phone, leaving Gansey to his own devices for a few hours._ _

__He had just settled down to watch the news after making himself a bowl of soup when his phone chimed from the coffee table. Gansey blinked and picked up the phone, furrowing his brows slightly at the message. It was a picture of Ronan, sprawled on the bench at The United Center, his arm twisted at an odd angle. His face was blotchy with angry flush, and he was cradling his elbow with his good hand. Gansey swore he felt his heart stop._ _

___18lynches: turns out the hawks have a mean bite  
18lynches: whelk hit me hard_ _ _

__Gansey was out of his chair before he knew what was going on. _What kind of hit was a_ winger _making that would break another player's arm?_ He fumbled with his TV remote, switching to the Washington sports channel. Sure enough, the entire arena seemed to be in a frenzy, and he was just in time to catch the instant replay of the hit._ _

__Ronan had just assisted on a goal and was celebrating near the boards, smile sharkish and bright just like Gansey remembered it. Whelk came out of nowhere and checked Ronan hard against the glass for absolutely no reason. Gansey watched as Ronan's arm twisted awkwardly under him, his sleeve caught on Backstrom's glove and his body being pinned by Whelk. Gansey could see the look of pain and terror that passed over Ronan's features, even under his helmet._ _

__Anger bubbled up in him until Gansey was absolutely livid. The rookie hadn't played a regular season game yet, but somehow people had already found a way to hold a grudge, or maybe Whelk was just that terrible of a person._ _

__Gansey grabbed his coat and keys and was out the door before the next commercial break._ _

___richardgansey62: I'm on my way._ _ _

__***_ _

___1 A.M., ONE DAY BEFORE THE GAME_ _ _

__It was almost one A.M. by the time Gansey finally arrived in Chicago. He had gotten the address to the hotel where Ronan was staying, and before he knew it he was sprinting up the hallway towards the rookie's door._ _

__He hesitated for half a beat, and then knocked on the door lightly. Someone inside grumbled in broken English and another voice hushed the first, but soon enough the door swung open to reveal a half-dressed, very unhappy Russian._ _

__“What the hell is Red Wings captain doing at door,” Prokopenko grumbled, rubbing his eyes softly. The Caps had still won their game, but it was clear the stress from Ronan's injury had rubbed off on the others. “Is one A.M.”_ _

__Shifting his weight lightly, Gansey averted his eyes. It felt like asking your girlfriend's dad if you could go on a date, except not at all, because they weren't dating. “Is Lynch around?” He asked, weaving and unweaving his fingers nervously._ _

__Proko rolled his eyes and leaned over his shoulder. “У Линча есть _зов плоти_ ¹,” he shouted, and whatever other Russian was in the room—probably Kavinsky—grumbled back angrily. “I get him,” Proko said, walking back into the room._ _

__Gansey waited for a few seconds before Ronan came to the door, his right arm bundled up against his body. He looked exhausted, both physically and mentally. “You came,” he mumbled, sliding outside and closing the door. “Let's go for a walk.”_ _

__Ronan lead the way down the hallway, gently running his fingers over his sling. Gansey opened his mouth to speak, but Ronan was already talking. “I know you're here because of this,” he began, shaking his head. “I know. I don't want to talk about it. Doctor said it'll heal fine, and I'll be able to play again in _two months_.”_ _

__There was nothing to be said to that. It was devastating, and with such a hopeful career, Gansey knew Ronan must be seething inside. He also knew, distantly, that the odds of Whelk actually getting reprimanded were fairly low. It made Gansey angry on Ronan's behalf._ _

__Gansey shook his head. “I know it sucks, Ro. I know that it's probably terrible. But I promise it'll get better. If you still play as well as you played that first game? You'll be captain faster than you can say Washington Capitals,” he murmured, resting a hand on the rookie's shoulder and squeezing softly._ _

__They rounded the corner, and Ronan gradually drifted closer to Gansey. By the time they were at the elevators, they were pressed shoulder to shoulder. “I just wish it was different,” Ronan murmured, so close now his breath just barely ghosted Gansey's cheek. “I wish that I had at least had one game, one damn game to prove it. That I could do it, that my Dad—” he shut down immediately, curling around himself and pulling away. “Nevermind.”_ _

__Gansey didn't want to pry, but he could tell there was something Ronan needed to say. “It's alright,” Gansey whispered, standing in the alcove where the elevators were. “There's no one here but you and me. You can trust me,” he promised. Gansey felt like he could physically see the gears in Ronan's head turning._ _

__The silence hung in the air like a thick fog, suffocating both of them. Ronan swallowed once before he spoke._ _

__“I'm gay, Gansey.” he whispered, barely a hiss of consonants. “My dad told me I wouldn't ever be shit. Said no gay athlete could be. I was finally going to prove him wrong.”_ _

__Gansey blinked softly. “But the team—”_ _

__Ronan growled darkly, narrowing his eyes into little slits. “That doesn't mean I want to fuck my teammates. Or anyone, actually. It's not my style.”_ _

__Taken aback, Gansey quickly shook his head. “No, not that. I mean, me neither, but… the team wouldn't care. You guys are a family, right? If you told them…” He trailed off. He didn't know what it would be like further south. Gansey knew if one of _his_ teammates came out to the Wings, they would all greet him with open arms, but he couldn't speak for the Capitals, even if DC was historically blue. “I don't know. But, I think they might surprise you.”_ _

__Ronan stared at Gansey, lips parted and pursed slightly to the left, like he was caught between confused and surprised. “You really… you think they wouldn't?” He murmured, pressing his good hand to the back of his neck nervously. “I was a little surprised you didn't leave.”_ _

__Gansey didn't know how to feel about that. He couldn't remember ever really feeling _physically_ attracted to someone, but mentally? He'd had his fair share of internalized homophobia, but he didn't know how to say it well. “I wouldn't do that,” he promised. “I wouldn't.”_ _

__Ronan looked at him, and something must have passed between them, because Gansey leaned up and pressed a soft kiss to the man's lips._ _

__Gansey had never kissed anyone, male or female, save for the one girl on the soccer team when they were both drunk off wine coolers in tenth grade, but that was nothing compared to this. He looped his arms around Ronan's shoulders, pulling him closer, begging him with all of his mental capacity not to leave. To trust him._ _

__Ronan didn't pull back; instead, he pressed his good hand to Gansey's cheek, ran his fingers through his hair like he would never get enough. When he pulled away, his eyes were wet. Gansey felt his breath hitch, and he reached up to brush the tears away. “It's okay,” Gansey whispered. “It's alright. We can figure this out. I promise.”_ _

__Ronan rested his forehead on Gansey's shoulder, silently letting the sobs rack his body. Gansey rested his head on Ronan's, not wanting him to be alone, not wanting to be alone himself, either._ _

__He stayed there with him for a long time, until Ronan stopped crying and pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. “Red Wings and Capitals, huh,” He teased, breathless. Finally, _finally_ , Gansey saw the smile he'd been waiting to see, pressed against his shoulder. “You think I'll really be captain one day?”_ _

__Gansey laughed softly. “Maybe so. Kavinsky is getting pretty old.”_ _

__***_ _

___11:00 P.M., DAY OF THE GAME_ _ _

__In the end, the Wings won their game, but it didn't end up mattering, because the win didn't mean as much when the Capitals were down their best rookie. But, Ronan watched from the stands the whole game, and his soft smile didn't fade even when Parrish scored the game winner with a tip-in. He just seemed to enjoy the game, even if he was frustrated he couldn't play. His mood was improved, however, upon hearing that Barrington Whelk was suspended for ten regular season games._ _

__It did end up mattering in a different way, though, because Ronan's team spent the night in Detroit, and he had managed to slip away to Gansey's home. Ronan had showed up with flowers, and Gansey had rolled his eyes despite the fact that it made his chest feel warm._ _

__“You won,” Ronan whispered, kissing Gansey's ear lightly. “In more ways than one, I hope.”_ _

__Gansey laughed softly. “Yes, well… I don't think winning a game is even comparable to this,” he teased back. It had barely been a week since his first day as captain, and yet he felt like he'd already learned so much. And so, when he leaned in to greet his boyfriend with a kiss, settled down on the couch, and leaned against him, he was certain that this season would turn out well after all._ _

__***_ _

___JUNE 17, 10:47 P.M._ _ _

__That was how Gansey found himself wearing his boyfriend's jersey, cheering at the top of his lungs as Ronan scored on the Sharks’ goaltender with a slapshot, bright-eyed and cheering, and then the buzzer sounded. His phone went off immediately, and he was greeted with a notification from NHL.com:_ _

___GAME 7, FINAL – 3-2, CAPITALS_ _ _

**Author's Note:**

> ¹ У Линча есть зов плоти — Lynch has a booty call
> 
> for my more hockey literate readers:  
> kavinsky was inspired by alexander ovechkin, prokopenko by evgeny kuznetsov, and whelk by patrick kane.
> 
> come find me on tumblr at josephkavinskys.tumblr.com !


End file.
